Reincarnated As Poseidon

The silence that followed the gods' retreat from the battlefield was deceptive. The blood-soaked waves lapped against jagged stones, carrying the scent of iron and ruin. Bodies—mortal and divine—floated aimlessly, their glassy eyes reflecting the crimson moon overhead. Poseidon stood among the wreckage, his trident planted firmly in the shattered earth, every breath rolling out like a storm tide.

His enemies had fled, but the war had not ended.

It had only… shifted.

The ocean behind him heaved unnaturally, responding to his every thought. Since Thalorin's awakening, the sea no longer simply obeyed him—it felt alive, sentient, whispering in a voice only he could hear.

"They will come again. Stronger. Bloodier. More desperate."

Poseidon closed his eyes briefly. He knew. He could feel the ripple in the currents—omens of approaching chaos. The gods would not forgive this defeat. Their pride was an unforgiving wound.

But for now, he had another problem.

From the shadow of the cliffs, a figure staggered into the moonlight. Blood dripped from her arm, trailing into the sea where it vanished like ink in water. It was Nerida, one of the last surviving priestesses of the deep. Her usually calm face was drawn tight with urgency.

"They've taken the children, my lord," she said, falling to her knees before him. Her voice trembled—not from fear of him, but from the horror of what she had witnessed.

Poseidon's jaw tightened. "Who?"

"The Tempest Guard," she said, her voice barely more than a rasp. "Agents of Zephyros. They struck the southern villages while you fought here. They mean to use them… as leverage."

Zephyros. The self-proclaimed Lord of Storms. One of the sea's greatest traitors—once a minor wind deity, now a rabid dog of the higher pantheon. Poseidon's mind flooded with memories of the last time they'd met—his laughter, the arrogance in his eyes before Poseidon had shattered his fleet. Clearly, the god had learned nothing from that humiliation.

"How many?" Poseidon asked.

"Dozens… perhaps more. They've bound them with windsteel chains—magic that even our warriors cannot break."

The sea at Poseidon's back began to churn violently, towering waves clawing at the rocks. The priestess flinched as the ground trembled under the sheer weight of his anger. Around them, the water grew darker, and the whisper in his mind became a hiss.

"Drown them. Leave nothing breathing. Let the wind choke in the salt of their dead."

It would be so easy to give in.

But Poseidon knew this was not just about vengeance—it was about sending a message. If the gods thought they could steal from him without paying the price, then the price would simply be raised higher.

"Where?" he demanded.

"A league south of Aegir's Teeth. They're moving quickly."

He didn't hesitate. With a single step, he strode into the surf, the waves rising eagerly to meet him. The sea bent beneath his will, cradling him as he moved—not swimming, not sailing, but gliding, as if the ocean itself bore him upon its back.

The night air was thick with salt and storm. Lightning flickered on the horizon, far too regular to be natural. Zephyros was close.

---

By the time he reached Aegir's Teeth—a jagged stretch of black rock where the ocean currents tore ships apart—he could hear them. The sound of oars, of wind-imbued sails cutting unnaturally fast across the water. The enemy fleet.

There were six ships in all, sleek and reinforced with windsteel. Lanterns burned green along their decks, a signature of the Tempest Guard. Between the ships, chained together by heavy lines, were small longboats—packed with shivering captives.

Poseidon's gaze hardened. The moonlight caught on the trident in his hand, and the ocean surged in response.

The first strike was not a wave—it was a wall.

A surge of black water rose from the deep, curling high above the tallest mast before collapsing with a force that shattered hulls like driftwood. One ship was gone before the crew even screamed, swallowed whole by the hungry sea.

The others panicked. Orders rang out. Wind magic roared as Zephyros's men fought to steady the fleet. But the ocean was no longer theirs to bargain with—it was Poseidon's domain.

The enemy tried to counter with gales strong enough to whip the sea into froth, but for every gust they summoned, Poseidon answered with a riptide that tore the air from their lungs. He was not merely fighting them—he was dismantling them, ship by ship.

"PO-SEI-DON!"

The voice thundered across the waves, carried by unnatural wind. From the deck of the lead ship stood Zephyros himself, cloaked in silvered stormclouds, his long hair whipping like banners in the gale.

"I see you've grown bold," Zephyros called, his grin sharp. "Bold enough to forget that I can still take everything from you."

Poseidon's lips curved in something colder than a smile. "Then take your best shot."

Zephyros raised his staff, and the sky obeyed. Lightning cracked downward in blinding arcs, striking the water where Poseidon had stood—yet the sea split beneath him, parting around the blows as though even the lightning feared him.

With a wordless command, Poseidon summoned the tide. A colossal serpent of water erupted from the deep, coiling high into the sky before crashing down upon the lead ship. The impact sent Zephyros sprawling, but the wind god caught himself mid-fall, riding a cyclone back onto the mast.

"You'll drown them too!" Zephyros roared, pointing toward the chained captives.

Poseidon didn't look away. "Better they drown free than live as your bargaining chips."

The battle raged in a storm of wind and water, each force colliding in deafening violence. But in the chaos, Poseidon's will never wavered. With precise sweeps of his trident, he directed currents to break the chains without touching the captives, casting the freed villagers into the embrace of calmer waters behind him.

Zephyros saw his leverage slipping away and snarled. "You can't protect them all!"

"Watch me."

The final blow came not from the sea, but from beneath it. Poseidon drove the butt of his trident deep into the water, and the ocean floor itself shifted. A fissure opened, sucking the lead ship into a whirlpool that swallowed it whole. Zephyros fought against it, his winds screaming in defiance—but it was like fighting gravity. The sea pulled him under.

Poseidon didn't stay to see if he survived. The captives were being carried to safety by currents he controlled, and the remaining ships had scattered into the night.

The sea quieted again, but the whisper in his mind lingered.

"You could have killed them all. Why let him live?"

Poseidon's grip tightened on his trident. "Because death is mercy. And mercy is not what I have planned for Zephyros."

---

By the time he returned to the cliffs, the villagers were safe, though shaken. Nerida knelt in the shallows, offering silent thanks to the ocean. When she looked up at him, her eyes were wide—not just in gratitude, but in something deeper. Awe… and fear.

"You faced him," she said softly. "And you won."

Poseidon turned his gaze toward the horizon, where stormclouds still churned faintly. "No. This was not the war. That is still coming."

And in his heart, he knew—when it came, the tide would not be gentle.